14 January 2000
Leaving Mumbai
The night left behind a sense of discomfort, and I did not mind that we were asked to meet downstairs at 6:00 am to board the bus. Breakfast? The bus will take us there. 6:30, no bus. 7:00, no bus.
The students spread out, up and down the road and across buying food from the stores. I joined them. Paul held the fort. Our tour guide did not seem to be worried at all. The bus arrived at 8:30, technical problems with the bus, how inspiring.
To top it all, the driver had not been received advance pay, which he needed to buy petrol. So, the bus had to wind its way through the whirlpool of Mumbai’s traffic to the head office in the city centre to pick up some cash. Michael and I were expected to come into the office and meet the local manager who gave us his “welcome to India speech”.
To show impatience would have been impolite therefore our impromptu meeting was completed with some small talk. Back on the bus, we saw worried looks on some of the students’ faces. Then we had to crawl our way out of the city again.
What an experience. Even on the bus, elevated above the churning chaos of vehicles, it was somewhat scary. By the time we reached the outskirts of Mumbai, it was eleven o’clock.
The 10 Star Hotel, The Leela
Suddenly the bus turned off the road passed through wrought iron gates and up the driveway of a hotel. If you know what splendour of English colonialism in India can look, multiply it by ten, and you may imagine what appeared in front of our eyes as the grove of huge maple trees receded.
A white marble building with verandas and porches, uncountable turrets, ornately cluttered with gold trims stunned us and bevelled glass windows cast small rainbows in between all that splendour. Lushes green lawns, voluptuous flowerbeds, piano music trickling out into the gardens, evoked a fairytale land.
“What are we doing here?” “Having breakfast,” was the stoical answer. That’s India. We are five hours late, but now we have breakfast.
We entered the lobby. Everything was touched by a whiff of old-fashioned grandeur. A world of glass and crystal, white marble and gold trims, the architect certainly must have had a glimpse of heaven before all this was designed. The fronds of the indoor palm trees matched the capitals of the columns, and their green joined the inside with the gardens.
All the hotel personnel, as well as the waiters, were all young men dressed in all white with turbans. Even with my experience in Vienna and many of the old capitals of Europe, I have never seen anything like this.
The cost of this meal was not included. A cup of coffee for US$8 is exorbitant; at that time in Australia, a cup of coffee was $2, and with the contemporary exchange rate the cost would have been AU$12.50. This was our first day in India. One student had dared to order water and had been successful, most of the others jumped on this idea. Their orders were received by the waiters with the same obedient smile as if they had ordered a US$80 breakfast.
Not the slightest raise of an eyebrow. The water was served like the most precious wine on a silver tray in crystal decanters, ice, lemon and lime, mint leaves and sugar.
The celebration of their success turned loud; they congratulated each other for their boldness. Embarrassed about their rowdiness, I settled at a small table near the windows looking out into the tranquillity of the pristine gardens, sipping my coffee, delighting in a selection of delicious petit fours. The piano still playing softly.
Water Pipeline
An hour later, we were back on the road; and by one o’clock, we hit the open road. I had discovered that we were bound for Aurangâbâd to see the famous cave temples. A street sign indicated the name of the cities ahead with colourful names such as Nasik, Melagaon and Dhule. Nothing about Aurangâbâd. I wished I had my Indian map, but alas, that was inaccessibly stored away in my suitcase in the luggage compartment of the bus.
And a few minutes later, all around us was desert, a few rocks, hills and scattered shrubs. After some time I noticed a pipeline running parallel to the road at about fifty metres distance. It was made from two pipes of about three metres diameter and every thirty to fifty metres those pipes were supported by concrete pillars.
I asked our guide about it. It’s the new water pipeline for Mumbai, and it will bring water from the mountains into the city. At its completion, it will be over one hundred fifty kilometres long.
After some time I could see the end of it. With makeshift cranes, people lifted five metre long sections up and welded them on. As we moved along, I could follow the process of the pipeline’s construction in reverse order. I saw pieces of pipe lying around, then sheets of metal at various stages of being curved into pipes, and the welded and later merely the concrete pillars poking up, looking a bit forlorn.
Followed by scaffolding and people with small cement mixers casting the pillars. Then people erecting the steel cores for the pillars, and finally, people digging holes in the ground for the foundations of the pillars.
No big machinery. And at each station, there were tents, women and children, goats and chicken. A bit bewildered, I asked our guide. The government considered giving the job to a large overseas construction company. But then they decided to teach the nomads, the poorest in the country, how to do the job; they get paid well for it. It may take twice as long but they have work, a purpose and that is dignifying. Oops. I was surprised to hear that word.
In the background, I hear students comment about the hard work, the poverty, the poor working conditions, the exploitations and words about slave labour. They are young. I have been unemployed for five years with not much hope for finding a job in my line of work. Dignifying?
Sure, the government provides, but the condescending treatment by the clerks who have no sense of appreciation for the people and their living conditions but judge them and make them fit a mechanical evaluation structure unable to consider individual circumstances.
In their ignorance, they believe they do a great job by strictly adhering to a system, which projects the condition of receiving a charity. All this contrasts flagrantly with my previously successful job history; that hurts.
Those nomads live and work in the habitat that they are used to. Yes, they do an unusual job, but it is an opportunity for them to continue living in their preferred environment. They feel needed, and they get paid for their labour.
How empowering; beats the humiliation of standing in an endless queue in order to receive a fortnightly charity any time. At least, this is my perception.
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on the way to Aurangâbâd, 14 January 2000
published: 12 July 2015
India and Nepal Travel Journal 